A Fistful of Death

Judy Spoon Ertel

Description

ADDIE GIRARD, accused of murder, shows what one single, widowed woman of fifty-eight can do to disprove the erroneous accusation and thwart a kidnapper!

If Agatha Christie’s Miss Jane Marple warped into the Twenty-first Century, she could be Adelaide Bonner Girard, Mom Extraordinaire and woman suddenly on her own. Addie Girard has a knack for finding herself in the wrong place at an unfortunately right time, hustling to deal with the issues of singledom. But what to do about the body on the floor?

Friends in Wanderwood, TX, and her grown children are swept into the swirl of events while Addie strives to discover the joys of a new life as a widow in charge of many decisions. So many options and so little time to explore them—and a dead body on the floor—lead Addie’s life down paths that she never foresaw but now embraces as a part of her new adventure. Wanderwood, TX, isn’t St. Mary Meade, but the similarities and conflicts of small-town life are there. If only there weren’t that dead body on the floor!

Sujets

• Fiction
• Texas

Informations

• Publié par: WestBow Press
• Date de parution: 25 avril 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781664290600
• Langue: English

Extrait

A Fistful of Death





Judy Spoon Ertel











Copyright © 2023 Judy Spoon Ertel.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.



WestBow Press
A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan
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Bloomington, IN 47403
www.westbowpress.com
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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6642-9059-4 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-6642-9061-7 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-6642-9060-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023901581



WestBow Press rev. date: 04/14/2023



Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25

Acknowledgements
About The Author



This book is dedicated to Jeanette, Louise, Linda, John S., Sharon, Karen, George, Earl…and especially to Kate and John L. with much love.



CHAPTER 1
“Hi, Travis T. Is anything wrong?”
“Mom, why do you always think that something is wrong whenever I call you?” asked my son.
“Possibly it’s because you don’t call me very often, Honey,” I said. “I’m really looking forward to your visit,” I added to be more positive. “You are still coming week after next?” A call from my son could be easy or difficult, depending on his mood and stress level. A visit by Travis to my home in Wanderwood was very rare.
“Yes, Mom,” he reassured. “Paula wanted me to ask whether there is anything special that we should pack for the kids. I’m bringing a few of their favorite toys and, of course, their clothes for two weeks.”
“Remember that I can do laundry, Travis. You shouldn’t need more than a week’s worth of clothes.”
“Okay. That sounds good. I’ll be sure to tell Paula. I’m looking forward to spending this time with you, Mom. I was lucky to get these two weeks off. It will probably be our only slow time at the company for the entire year.”
My oldest child, Travis Taylor Girard, or Travis T as his college friends dubbed him, was a mid-level manager at High Plains Products in Lubbock. High Plains manufactured the popular Grab ‘Em line of beef jerky snacks. With the competitiveness in the snack food industry, his busy job kept Travis tied to Lubbock most of the year.
“Travis, I’m especially looking forward to spending time with you. I’m planning some activities for us to do with Trent and Tricia. Do you have any idea of things Paula might like to do?” I queried.
“Paula’s busy and can’t come this time, so please keep it simple.” Travis sounded tired and a little frustrated. “I just want to relax and spend time with you. Looks like my lunch order is ready. I’ll call you later.”
“I love you, Honey. Take care,” I said.
“Love you, too, Mom. See you soon.”
Lunchtime loomed, and I launched into food prep mode. I was shortly using my left foot to hold back Vanilla, my curious Siamese cat, as I eased out the back door and onto the patio. Since I was trying to balance a tray containing a bowl of salad (already dressed and tossed), a saucer piled with Fritos, a napkin, utensils, and a glass of ice-cold lemonade, this was no easy feat. The tray held my version of a vegetarian lunch. ‘Corn is the main ingredient in Fritos,’ I reasoned. ‘The lettuce, ripe olives, radish, grated carrot, and pecans are definitely vegetable.’
The atmosphere in my back yard was soothing as I placed the tray on the picnic table and seated myself on the bench. ‘Addie,’ my conscience scolded, ‘you know that grated parmesan cheese is not in any way, shape, or consistency a vegetable. And those croutons. Tsk! Tsk!’ Sometimes I felt that my conscience could be too picky.
‘I need the cheese for balance in my diet,’ I mentally protested. ‘Besides, wheat is vegetable.’ I knew that warring with my conscience, even over a small matter like the contents of my lunch, was a losing battle. I carefully settled into consuming my salad and nudged my conscience into silence, at least for a while.
Lunching on my patio as I enjoyed my back yard was always a pleasant time for me. “George, I know that you must be appalled, but I put Abelia bushes along the back of the house in your precious natural yard. They look lovely with the sage bushes that I planted earlier in March. You know, George. It was before I started planning the kitchen remodeling project. I need to have that redo finished before Lindsey and I leave for the cruise in May.”
Talking to my deceased husband probably seemed odd to some people, but my true friends understood. After thirty-four years of a very loving and intimate relationship, it was difficult to let go of George completely. He was so totally entrenched in my life and my mind. We truly were soul mates---even though he could be a little controlling at times. Like his attitude toward putting more plants in the yard. The unnatural look he called it.
Now George was discoursing on more important things with the angels in God Land. And I, Adelaide Bonner Girard, single widow, mother of four, and gardener extraordinaire, could plant anything I wanted any time I chose (within reason, weather, and budget). This month I chose sage bushes and Abelias.
Abelias were sweet little bushes that were supposed to grow well in our warm Central Texas climate. Cynthia Parkhal at the Grow ‘Em Tall Nursery told me that Abelias should thrive, not take a lot of water, and not make a lot of mess or need a lot of tending. They fit my cardinal rule for gardening. If it doesn’t grow by itself, it doesn’t belong in my yard .
“Are you in the back yard, Addie?” Lottie Frisham called to me from the side yard by my house.
Lottie Frisham was one of my best friends and near neighbors in Wanderwood. We spent probably too much time together since I moved from Lubbock permanently to live in my former summer home at Wanderwood, Texas. I depended on Lottie to help me acclimate. What she didn’t know about Wanderwood wasn’t worth knowing.
“On the patio, Lottie. I’m finishing my lunch,” I answered her.
Lottie was a picture in her usual colorful attire. Today her gray curls bounced above a mint green, mid-calf length, jumpsuit with embroidered, entwined daisies and roses down each side seam. I knew that my friend spent many hours on first sewing the jumpsuit and then on embroidering each flower and leaf. Her talents in needlework knew no bounds.
“The jumpsuit is finished! It’s stunning, Lottie,” I said, and I meant every word. Lottie finished her look with a pert yellow handkerchief tucked into one of the patch pockets and with yellow patent leather sandals on her bare feet. Her red polished toenails reflected the red of the roses. The effect was as stunning as I told her, and she deserved the accolade.
“Well, I finished the last of the embroidery yesterday morning,” she said as she took a seat at the table. “Then I had to hurry to get the jumpsuit washed and ironed so that I could wear it today.”
“All of that effort was definitely worth it,” I complimented. “You have a boat load of talent and patience when you are working on your crafts. I would be too intimidated by the size and scope of such a project even to think of trying it.”
“Why thank you for those kind words, Addie,” she preened. “I wanted to have it finished before Travis T arrived with the family. I know that it won’t be long now, and I’m looking forward to seeing Tricia and Trent again.”
“Yes, I’m looking forward to their visit, too. In fact, I just spoke to Travis on the phone.”
“Well, what did Travis have to say?” asked Lottie. For some reason, my neighbor and close friend started many of her sentences with the word well .
“Not much, as usual, except that Paula isn’t coming with him,” I said which started my brain to puzzling over why Paula wouldn’t be on this visit.
“Paula’s not coming? But I made plans for things to do with Tricia and Trent.” Lottie was instantly well on her way to being distraught.
“No worry about that; Trent and Tricia will be here.”
This information seemed to return Lottie to her happy place. “Well, how are you going to manage meals when your entire kitchen will be under construction?” asked Lottie. “Have you heard from Kilgore Pettigrew as to when he’ll start tearing up your kitchen?”
“Kilgore said that the two weeks when Travis will be visiting is the only time he can begin my kitchen remodel,” I explained. “Then he will have one more week to put the finishing touches on the kitchen. He has some other big renovation scheduled after that. Some whole-house remodel. A major magilla . His words, not mine.”
“Well couldn’t you postpone your kitchen until after the house magilla ? Travis doesn’t get to Wanderwood very often.”
I knew that Lottie was trying to be helpful, but the situation was already a frus